His Worst Nightmare
by BambixRonno
Summary: Despite what people think, Sherlock isn't a machine. He's capable of love. And he's capable of fears. He's especially capable of those two things combined. Johnlock


**Okay, so for the record, this is the first Sherlock fanfic I have decided to post, and I'm posting it because I can't take not having a Sherlock fanfic in the My Stories column... thing any more. Is it going to be OOC? Probably, because I suck at keeping people in character. Are people going to get annoyed at said OOCness? More than likely. Am I going to regret posting this? Eh, sixty percent chance. Is that going to stop me? No, because I'm an idiot. Oh well.**

**Oh, and by the way. If, for what ever reason, some of you who are reading this are also reading my Learning About a Winter Spirit or Each Snowflake Is Unique fanfic, then please bear in mind that I am NOT giving up on them. I wrote this a while ago when I'd already updated one of them (can't remember which) and was writing the other one. I decided to post it just in case it helps to slow my Sherlock obsession for a while. Will it? Probably not, but oh well.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, then Johnlock would be canon by now. However, I don't, and it isn't**

Sherlock paced in his room, nervously biting his lip. He shouldn't be so worked up about it. John was fine, he was still alive, and that was all that mattered. So surely he shouldn't have any reasons to be worried. But he was.

John had gotten injured on a case. They'd been chasing a criminal into a trap that had been set up with Lestrade and his team waiting at the end, but as the chase was coming to an end John got hit by a car. Sherlock heard the screech of the tires and noticed that John's footsteps stopped, so he turned around to look. The killer continued running, unaware that he was going to walk straight into a group of police officers. Sherlock didn't care, and instead he ran to John's side, trying to slow the bleeding while he waited for an ambulance.

As it turned out, John was very lucky. The car that had hit him hadn't been going as fast as Sherlock had originally feared, and although there had been a short time where there was a threat of John dying, he got out of it alive and was discharged from the hospital.

But it still gave Sherlock enough time to think, and think he did. He realized that with how dangerous his job was, John was constantly being threatened with death. He knew that before, obviously, but he never really _acknowledged _it. The idea of losing John was... terrifying. Especially the thought of losing John without telling him his secret.

Sherlock had held some feelings for John for quite a while now, but he'd always kept quiet about it. John wasn't gay, he'd made that statement perfectly clear plenty of times. Plus, emotions weren't exactly Sherlock's area, so he decided to just ignore them and continue like normal.

Except that was getting harder and harder. Sherlock found himself staring at John's lips for a little too long, found himself longing to feel what it was like to have another warm body holding him close in a hug or when he was trying to sleep. He wanted to know what John's mouth felt like pressed against his own, wanted to know what it would be like to whisper those three little words he would normally ban himself from saying into someone's ear and have the words returned without hesitation. He wanted to know what it felt like to be loved by John and be with him, but fear kept it at bay.

Only now he was wondering if that was such a great idea. The icy, sharp terror he'd felt at the thought of John dying was nothing like he'd ever felt before. And he knew how dangerous it was running around London chasing after a criminal. There was one thing he didn't want, and that was John dying before he'd gotten a chance to tell him what he truly felt.

Sherlock knew he needed to tell John. No matter what, he needed to tell John. It would be straightforward and sudden and completely out of the blue, but Sherlock didn't want to try and wait for the perfect opportunity to pop up neatly and present itself. There was a possibility that John and he might not see that moment. It needed to be done, and it needed to be done now, before he lost his nerve.

Which was why, after an hour or two of doing nothing but walking backwards and forwards in his room, Sherlock took a deep breath and finally let himself out, his eyes immediately landing on John, who was sat in his chair rubbing his still-sore leg. Sweet, loyal, kind John, who stood by him when no one else would. He deserved to know the truth.

"John, I need to talk to you about something."

John looked up in surprise, putting the newspaper down on the table almost immediately. He stood up and smiled at Sherlock. A smile that quickly dropped when he saw Sherlock's face. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I... I need to tell you something." Sherlock swallowed nervously, not understanding why his stomach was doing backflips. He never felt nervous, so why was this time any different? "You remember the day you moved into 221b and we went to Angelo's for that case? The one you named A Study in Pink on your blog. You remember when you asked me about my sexuality?" John nodded, brow furrowed in confusion. "Well, I – as it turns out, I'm not only gay, but – John, I... I think I'm in love... and I think that it's you I've fallen for."

By this point Sherlock was staring at the floor, not wanting to see the look on John's face, but eventually he risked a peek. What would he see? Shock? Delight? Pity?

No. He saw horror.

"Sherlock, I..." John tugged at his jumper nervously, and Sherlock could see it in his eyes. Rejection. He was going to be rejected.

No. No no no no no. This couldn't happen. It just couldn't. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why couldn't he just keep his damn mouth shut for once? He was going to ruin everything. No, he already _had _ruined everything. Everything was gone. Over. John had lasted longer than any previous flatmate, and just as Sherlock was finally starting to care for someone as more than a friend, he'd chased them away. Stupid.

"John..." Sherlock reached a hand out to grab John's wrist, or hand, or sleeve, or _anything._ Whatever he had to do, he would do it, so long as John stayed. But John flinched away from him. Sherlock's hand dropped down to his side as he watched his flatmate slowly backing away from him.

"Sherlock, listen. I'm flattered that you like me, I really am, but I... I'm sorry, but I just don't feel that way about you. I'm not gay. I'm sorry."

Sherlock backed off a bit, hoping that by giving John some space, he would stay. Anything that would get him to stay. "No, it's okay. I understand. You don't... have to apologize. I understand. You don't feel that way. It's fine."

John still seemed to be a bit shocked by Sherlock's confession, but more than that he seemed... disgusted. Like he couldn't bear the knowledge. Dread began to creep into Sherlock's heart. "Sherlock, listen... maybe it would be best if we didn't see each other for a while. We should just... take some time away from each other, you know? Give each other time to think things over."

John was suddenly moving around the flat with a speed Sherlock didn't know he possessed, taking his things in his arms so that he could take them upstairs and pack them away. The dread turned to ice. No. No matter what, he couldn't lose John. John couldn't leave him. "No, John, wait..."

John only moved faster, to the point where he was almost running up the stairs, like he was trying to get away from Sherlock. Sherlock only followed him. "John, please, can we talk about this?"

John shook his head rapidly, pulling out a travel case from under his bed and opening it. "Maybe later, Sherlock. I need some air. I'll come back when I'm ready to talk about it, okay?"

But John wasn't planning on coming back, not ever again, and Sherlock could see it. It only made him even more desperate. "No, John, wait!" Without thinking he grabbed John's wrist, only for it to be yanked away from him. John's alarmed and slightly dangerous hiss came immediately after. "Don't touch me!"

"John, please, just listen to me." Sherlock begged. This couldn't be happening, it couldn't be happening, it couldn't be happening. "Look, John, I've made a mistake, alright? I understand that you don't feel the same way, but you don't have to leave."

"Who says I'm leaving? I'm just going out for a bit of air, Sherlock. Tell you what, I'll go to Sarah's, or Mike's, and I'll get them to call or text you regularly, and when I'm ready to talk, I'll come back, alright?" Lies, lies, lies. John had no intentions of doing such things. If he did, he wouldn't be packing up everything he owned.

"John, stop and think for a moment. Please, can't we just forget about this? Forget this ever happened, and we'll go back to normal, I swear it. Just... don't go."

"How do I know that we'll go back to normal? How do I know that you won't perform some weird experiment on me when I'm asleep or something?" John replied instantly. "I don't, Sherlock. And I can't just forget things like you can. Normal humans don't work like that." Sherlock flinched but John just continued. "I'm sorry Sherlock, but... but I don't want to stay in a place where someone who I don't love has a crush on me. I don't feel safe."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to control his breathing but failing miserably. "You don't feel – John, what do you think I would do to you?"

"I don't know! You're you! You could do anything to me and find a way to make sure I won't be able to fight back. I don't want you making a move on me, Sherlock. If you ever decide that you can't control yourself around me, then I don't want to be around when that happens." John almost pushed him out of the way in his hurry to get down the stairs, travel case in hand. Sherlock followed him. "Wha – John, I would never do that! I don't love you in... _that _way!"

"But it's only a matter of time until you _will _desire me in that way. And once that happens, you could do anything. I don't want to get hurt."

"John... please..." Sherlock moved to grab John again but the doctor suddenly turned on him. "I said don't touch me!"

Sherlock let his hand fall to his side again. "John, I'm begging you. You can't leave me."

"I can and I will." John snapped, turning around and heading for the door again. "Why shouldn't I? I don't want to live with an unstable psychopath like you."

"John, please, I... I need you."

"You need me? For what? To drag me around and nearly get me killed? To keep you alive because you can't be bothered to feed yourself? Well, I have news for you, Sherlock Holmes. I don't need you, and I never will." He yanked the door open harshly. "And I would _never_ care for a freak like _you._"

Sherlock gasped as he bolted upright, almost immediately feeling the warm weight of the covers around his lap. It took him a moment to remember where he was, but once it registered it calmed him a little. _Bedroom. Of course, John was nagging at me to go to sleep because I hadn't since that case started. _He ran a shaking hand through his hair, trying to get his breathing back to normal._ Nightmare. It was just a nightmare._

Nightmares weren't that uncommon for Sherlock. He'd had quite a few – okay, so maybe a lot – ever since the pool incident. Most of them were about the various times he could have messed up. One time he'd dreamt that it was John who the cabbie took, and he chose the wrong pill, and died in agony in Sherlock's arms. Another time he hadn't managed to figure out the code to Irene's safe, and John had been shot and killed. And once or twice he'd dreamt about doing or saying something wrong, and John had suffered when the sniper shot the bomb strapped to his chest.

He didn't tell John about any of these nightmares. Why should he? They were his burden to carry, and since John wouldn't appreciate sharing his nightmares about the war with Sherlock, he'd probably not want to hear about Sherlock's own childish problems.

But this – this kind of nightmare only showed itself on one occasion. Sometimes he'd decide that he was finally going to confess how he felt to John, and he'd fall asleep thinking of how he was supposed to tell him. Then _that _kind of nightmare would rear it's ugly head and remind Sherlock of exactly _why_ he couldn't tell John about his feelings. He wouldn't be able to handle it, wouldn't be able to handle John rejecting him and leaving Baker Street forever.

Drink. He needed a drink. Something that would clear his head a little and get him off of this train of thought. And he needed to find a way to calm himself down so that he'd stop shaking. It was bad enough that he'd felt tears rolling down his cheeks when he woke up.

Sherlock slowly got to his feet and made his way to the kitchen, putting the kettle on the minute he got there. Hopefully a cup of tea would be just the thing he needed to get rid of the awful nightmare.

After a while he heard footsteps and immediately knew that John was coming downstairs. As his flatmate looked into the kitchen just as Sherlock was turning around to return to his chair, the consulting detective knew that he knew. John knew he'd had a nightmare.

And yet John, sweet, kind, understanding John, didn't question him about it. He sat silently while Sherlock drank his tea, and took the cup to the kitchen when he was done without a word. Then he sat next to Sherlock on the sofa and forced him to lay down. Even then John didn't return to his own bed, instead he decided to lie with the man, running his fingers through his soft, curly hair and humming slightly, waiting for Sherlock to fall asleep again.

As Sherlock's eyes began to drift close, he realised that it was moments like this he loved. Moments when John was just being John, accepting and caring. He could have just left Sherlock on his own, but he didn't, he chose to get up and see what was going on instead of rolling over and going back to sleep. It was moments like this that was one of the many reasons he'd fallen in love with John in the first place.

But, as his nightmare had reminded him, he couldn't tell him. Sherlock wouldn't be able to take John leaving him because he was disgusted with the idea of another man loving him.

No, Sherlock decided as he drifted off again, it was better for him and John to be separated with John as his best friend than for him and John to be separated and John hating him because of his feelings.

That was why he could never tell him

…...

John trudged up the stairs to 221b, his legs feeling like lead. Every step he made brought back painful memories of him and Sherlock, most of them involving racing around to solve crimes. It was hard to believe that he would never again wake up at 2 in the morning to the sound of the violin. Never again would he find new body parts in the fridge next to the food. Never again would he see Sherlock shooting the wall because he was bored. And all because he'd jumped from that building.

It had been awful, sitting there and watching them cart Sherlock's body off. He'd stared at the spot where his best friend had been, where there was still blood on the pavement. Blood that had leaked from Sherlock's head. That brilliant, sharp, clever head of his that would never again make another deduction...

A sob tore it's way from John's throat but he forced himself to go on. As he entered the living room he dreaded walking up another flight of stairs, but then his eyes caught sight of Sherlock's closed door.

John swallowed. He shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't. It would just make it worse. But he really _couldn't _go to his room. He didn't have the energy.

John walked to Sherlock's room, face cold and emotionless like a robot's. At least until he opened the door and stepped inside. A scent that was so _Sherlock_ drifted into his nose. John gulped and tried to remain calm, tried to keep his face a mask like Sherlock had done. Like Sherlock had done when John had last seen him face to face. When he'd called him a machine. Was that what pushed him to jump?

John didn't even notice as he grabbed one of Sherlock's scarf's and collapsed onto Sherlock's bed, sobbing into it. More memories surfaced and he just sobbed even harder. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry."

He'd never told him. Sherlock could see through anyone, and yet John still had a secret that he'd never told Sherlock. Even if Sherlock already knew, it didn't make it hurt any less to know that he'd never get the chance to say it. Now Sherlock was gone, and he'd never be able to admit his feelings.

John lay there for hours, sobbing into Sherlock's scarf, whispering the same phrase over and over even though it was too late and Sherlock couldn't hear him, because he was gone gone gone. "I love you, Sherlock. I love you."

**Yes, it's over. If you have made it to the end, dear reader, then thank you for your patience. Take this chocolate trophy. Oh, and if you have time (or a thought), then please leave a review. I don't care what it says, or if it's a good review. All reviews are good reviews to me.**

**Now I will leave you all in peace.**

**PS: If you found this fanfic angsty, I apologize. I can't help it, I like angst**


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